William Blake’s “Ezekiel’s Vision” | commons.wikimedia.com | public domain

Ezekiel’s Wheel

They said I was mad, perhaps I was.
How else could I explain myself:
laid out on one side
for days on end, playing war
with a brick; a crazed prophet?
Shaved face, shaved head,
a pocketful of hair for fire:
a sign dread full of verdict passed.
But they could never understand —
did not see the flaming sign:
the presence of cherub faces,
an awful night terror of the day,
pulsing with power, a four-faced
quartet. Wheels within diamond
studded wheels rimmed with eyes.
All I could do was fall on my face
and be their path of least resistance.